Esoteric Son
by Cr1mson5
Summary: Ra's al Ghul has his best-kept secrets, and among them is the forgotten child the world never knew about.
1. Revelation

**None of it is mine.**

**Rating: T for my standard one-shot stuff**

I have my share of secrets, tucked away into the darkest corners of my mind and heart. There, they are safe, even from the scrutinizing eyes of the Detective himself. Impressive as the man's skills are, these secrets are things he has never been able to deduce. Among them are my birth name and the other, less…satisfying versions of the Lazarus Pit. But, always and forever, the greatest is my fourth, forgotten child, my second son, Adrian.

There was Dusan, the first son, who was cast aside from birth for his supposedly inferior qualities that have since been proven to be no more than rumor. At the time of Adrian's birth, though, my mind was still somewhat clouded by the whispers of an ancient curse that I need not divulge here, and I found myself in a difficult position. I required a male heir, a worthy young man to one day take his place at the head of my organization once my mission was complete. Please, I beg you, do not misunderstand me. It was not out of any believed inability on the part of either of my daughters, treacherous though Nyssa was revealed to be, but out of custom. My upbringing had taught me that a woman's place was not in the throne, but beside the throne, of a king. And my son was to be a king like no other, as I had planned for all my children. But, without a wife, I could have no son, and, therefore, no heir to rule my empire when I was no longer fit to.

That, thank the gods, was when Isabella came into my life.

She was beautiful, a heavenly creature fallen down into the ranks of men. She was a vision with pale, smooth skin and slightly angular features framed by flowing raven locks, and her storm-gray eyes held a look of cool confidence and an intelligence that I had found to be uncommon among most of her peers. Her voice was song, her laugh was wind, and her glance was pure joy for any man who attracted it. For some reason, though, that glance seemed to linger on me, stretching into a long, loving gaze. I was caught in her thrall, helpless against my affections for her, yet my more sensible side knew that I had found the mother of my heir. Eventually, in the summer of 1992, we were wed, and it was on a chill September night that same year that our son was conceived. It was in anxiety that we spent the nine months of her pregnancy, planning the boy's future. Obviously, we could not simply thrust him into preparations for ascending to the power that was his birthright. A proper ruler must prove himself. So, we devised a test for our son, Isabella and I. We decided that, upon his birth, he would be bequeathed to a civilian family and raised in the outside world, away from the League of Assassins. If he still grew to be a worthy heir, he would be reintroduced to his family. If not, we would try again.

The nineteenth of June, 1993, was a beautiful day, or so I was told. I never got to see the sun that day, for Isabella began having contractions early in the morning and continued throughout the hours of the day until the labor pains came, at last, that evening, and Adrian al Ghul was born under the moonlight. It was a momentous occasion, but bittersweet, nonetheless. As I took young Adrian from the midwife, I turned to tell Isabella to look upon the healthy, strong baby boy she had given birth to and saw that her face, always pale, had now gone deathly, unnaturally white. She lay upon her bed motionlessly, staring blankly into the distance, the light forever gone from her eyes.

I must have sat with her body for hours, sobbing, as I held my infant son in my arms. I will confess that I considered raising her to life again via Lazarus Pit, but I could not bring myself to do so. She had never cared for them, in the eleven months that she had known my secret to eternal youth. She had said once that they reminded her of volcanoes: dangerous, and not to be toyed with. She would not approve if I forced her to use one. Little Adrian, then, was all I had left of Isabella, and I was reluctant to give him away. But, soon, I scolded myself, thinking that Isabella would never forgive me if I was to go back on my word now.

And so, Adrian was taken to an orphanage in the United States, in a filthy cesspool of the worst sort of scum of humanity known as Gotham City. It was in this bustling metropolis that a young married couple came looking for a child to adopt. Jack and Janet Drake were only two people in a swarming mass of millions, businesspeople on the rise and not very significant by the standards of most, but they were quite important to my plans. Their only child had been stillborn, and they wished to fill the empty void in their hearts by taking in a little boy. When they saw my gray-eyed little Adrian, the woman squealed in delight, demanding that her husband arrange for them to keep _that _child, he was the _perfect_ baby, and she just _had _to have him for her own. The man apparently could not resist the boy's charms, either, and the adoption was soon underway. It seemed to be so short a time from their entrance into the orphanage until they walked out again, Janet cradling Adrian and cooing little adoring phrases to the slumbering child in the most ridiculous baby voice.

I kept a watchful eye on Adrian his entire life, wisely remaining in the shadows and never making a move that would result in his discovering his true lineage. I observed the little family of three from the time that "Timothy Drake" was brought into his new home, never allowing my surveillance of them to be deterred once. I must say that I lost some of my faith in my son for a spell. In the first years, he was a scrawny boy, smaller than most of the other children his age, and so easily provoked to strong emotion that it became somewhat…disconcerting for me, as an onlooker, to behold. I began to believe, in those years, that perhaps it would have been best to have kept the boy in my care, after all. I longed to steal him back away to the Cradle, to the League of Assassins and his inheritance, but I had vowed to my sweet Isabella that I would test him as such, and I could not turn back now.

To my relief, Adrian grew both physically and mentally. He learned to conceal his emotions under a properly erected barrier, learned to appear unfazed by most everything around him. I watched him grow from a spindly youngster into an able-bodied and muscular youth, watched him train under the Detective and become quite the impressive hero. I was confident that he displayed all the qualities necessary for a worthy heir.

However, there was a setback.

Adrian was extremely attached to his adoptive parents. Perhaps it was because they had cleverly hidden the adoption certificate, because they had never spoken of it in his presence or even hinted that it had occurred at all. The boy was convinced that he was Timothy Drake, and that deceit on the part of Jack and Janet made him cling to them as an infant clings to its security blanket. He was always loath to leave them, loath to do anything they would not approve of for want of their approval. He thrived off of it, was addicted to it, and it became a problem. If he was ever to claim his birthright, he would need to let go of all things holding him back to a civilian life. A slight manipulation of events on my part, a few instructions to a faithful servant, a simple payoff, was all it took to secure what I was sure would be their fates. However, I was disappointed that only Janet was taken care of by the abduction and it only made Adrian that much more protective of Jack. I felt that, if this state of affairs had been allowed to continue, eventually my son would be torn between two fathers: myself and Jack Drake.

The time came again to turn the tide of events in my favor. It was as simple as yet another payoff and set of instructions to instigate the death of Jack Drake, as well as a few others in order to divert suspicions. Even more perfect was the wave of tragedy that swept the youngster's life, seemingly taking all he held dear, all that could tie him down to _that_ life, the life that had been sewn around him in a mantle of lies. With nothing left to hold onto, the boy would be searching for something to call his own, a kingdom of sorts to lord over where he could be free to do as he pleased and none would look down on him for his choices. Fortunately, I had for him such a kingdom. He was primed, he was ready to be reinstated as my heir, and it was a promising—and exciting—time for my family.

It was also the time that the Detective opted to interfere.

Wayne could not have known, of course, as he'd had no reason to perform a DNA test on his young squire to prove his heritage. The boy had grown up with the Drakes, Isabella's black hair and gray eyes gave him the appearance of being Jack and Janet's true child, and he honestly believed the usurped identity of the stillborn boy was his own. The Detective knew the pain of losing both parents in such a short span of time. He was sympathetic toward the young man he'd grown so attached to in their time as mentor and protégé. Almost without hesitation, he adopted my son as his own, and I once again felt that Adrian would be torn between two fathers, between Bruce Wayne and me.

For quite some time, I struggled to find a solution to my dilemma. I did not wish to simply eliminate the man, as I had with the Drakes, especially not when I became aware of the equally strong bond between Adrian and Grayson. Assassinations occur every day in this world we dwell in now, but I could recognize that these particular assassinations would draw the truth-seeking eyes of many an investigator, which could become a formidable force if they worked together. Not to mention that I would also draw the wrath of their allies in costume and I did not see wisdom in attracting heroes such as Superman and Wonder Woman to my stronghold. So, the moment I learned of the Detective's death and young Adrian's departure from Gotham City, I seized the opportunity. I sent a team of three of my most lethal assassins—not necessarily the most experienced, at least in Prudence's case—to follow him, to watch over him, and to help him should he require it. He came to require their assistance, and they made quick work of those who obstructed his path. Although he searched for his "father", I felt confident that I could soon turn his mind to other matters. And I eventually did, once he discovered the presence of my assassins and accepted my offer for aid. I had been hoping to lure him into the League, to soften his nerves against the notion of serving me, before revealing his true identity. Perhaps, I'd thought, perhaps all he needed was time to know me better. Perhaps it only required our working together in order for him to come to think of me as something better than an enemy.

Still, even when Adrian turned against me, I meant to bring him home. I tested his abilities thoroughly, plotting against his surrogate family and pushing him to the brink of his patience and sanity. He passed with flying colors. And relative ease, I might add. He showed much more talent and progress than before. He was precise, methodical, and logical. He would lead the League of Assassins well.

The Detective's return was met with much disquiet on all sides. I was concerned that all my efforts would be wasted, for what came to be no reason. For Adrian, though still admittedly close to his former mentor, remained somewhat uneasy around him, as if fearing being abandoned yet again, and he seemed to prefer to keep his distance from most of the Bat-family. This left him open, vulnerable despite his best defenses, and I watched diligently for the opportune moment.

Now, so many months later, it has finally come. He has survived the Assassination Tournament victorious and with injuries that have served only to teach a valuable lesson. He has made me proud. I have already given the word to my servants to collect Adrian and bring him to my palace in the mountains, my so-called auxiliary fortress. I stand at the window of my study and watch the stars in the night sky, waiting for word of the outcome of their mission.

The door opens, and the White Ghost stalks into the study, his massive feet pounding against the floor with every step. He approaches me and reports, "Master, they have secured Red Robin."

I fight the smile that threatens to curl my lips. "I trust that he has been sedated," I say.

"Yes, Master. He has been relieved of his uniform and weapons and was put to bed in his private quarters, as requested. He should awaken shortly." He pauses. "Will you be…speaking with him, Master?"

"I shall."

The White Ghost nods. "I will instruct the men to leave you to your peace, then."

I sigh and place a hand on his shoulder. "You, dear friend, always know what I need most."

Without further ado, I make my way to Adrian's quarters. I close the door behind me when I enter the room and place a chair beside the bed where the young man now slumbers peacefully. Settling into my seat, I watch my son inhale and exhale slowly, each deep breath making the thick covers draped over him rise and fall with his chest. I don't think I shall tell him that this was Isabella's room, as well, the same room she gave birth to him in…the same room she lost her life in. No, it would only trouble him more. And heaven knows that the news itself will be enough to blacken his day.

Soon enough, Adrian gives forth a small, soft moan, stirring under the blankets. Bleary, storm-gray eyes open with some difficulty, evidently still fighting against the sedative. Even through the haze of the drug, however, his training forces his sensing that he is not alone in the room. I clear my throat as his attention turns to me, this time not bothering to hide my satisfied smile as I gaze upon my son, my wayward boy who has finally returned to his birthright.

"Hello, dear boy," I greet the drowsy young man. "It has been so long since I could call you my son…Adrian."

**End?**


	2. Sin Itself

**Hey, look! I'm back with more!**

The name of "al Ghul" is synonymous with sin itself for the young man, and comparison with the infamous bearer of that name is the highest of insults. He could never imagine being such a coldhearted, cruel, and emotionless man. He always used the leader of the League of Assassins as the prime example of all he hoped to never become.

Currently, he is trying to convince himself that he hasn't heard what the man has just said to him. He's determined to chalk it up to the sedative, or to the stress of the past few weeks, or even just to the injuries he received from the assassins that came to collect him. It would be difficult enough if he wasn't fully awake, fully aware. But now…now, it is just undeniable.

Ra's al Ghul is Timothy Drake's father.

Well, he supposes he should start calling himself by his real name at some point. After all, he doesn't deserve the stolen name of a dead boy. He wonders…he wonders how many people actually _knew_ about that stillborn baby. Surely, somebody had to. And, even if his parents didn't often spend much time around him, why didn't they think it important to show him the adoption certificate—if there was one at all?

Adrian wants, more than anything, to leave. He wants to go, to return to his normal life and have nothing more to do with the house of his enemy. It isn't as if he's being held prisoner here; the men that guard his quarters and even the White Ghost himself have all made it extremely clear that he is permitted to leave at any time he wishes without so much as a word of protest from Ra's. Despite this, though, Adrian has felt oddly compelled to stay. The six days that have passed here in Ra's' mountain stronghold have done nothing to make him change his mind. He's been cared for, well fed and clothed richly, and he gets the sense that there is real reverence for him here, solely on the basis of his heritage. It isn't as though he's remaining here for the attention…not really, anyway. It _is_ a nice change of pace from being all but ignored by his brothers and adoptive father back home in Gotham City. But he doesn't think he could live with himself for long, standing by as the pseudo-soldiers here go and carry out assassinations, murders, _crimes_ in his name.

Before he can stop himself, Adrian is pulling on soft, comfortable leather boots and a red shirt, doing up the buttons as he walks the somehow-familiar path to Ra's' study. He still finds himself wondering at the ease with which he can traverse the halls of the stronghold, having grown unsettlingly used to being roughly escorted by ninja everywhere he goes. Now, they simply watch and occasionally give a polite, respectful nod as he passes.

It's so strange that he has to force himself onward, instead of stopping to stare back.

The door of the study opens before he can raise his fist to knock, and the White Ghost looms over him, growling, "Do you wish to speak with your father, little one?"

Adrian's resolve dissipates in an instant, and he finds himself struggling to form words before the burly beast of a man. As if on cue, Ra's' voice calls out from someplace behind the man, "Let him in, dear friend. The boy may go where he wishes."

White Ghost steps aside with a grunt and a scowl, glaring at Adrian as he creeps past. (The young man isn't so certain that "glowering" isn't the only expression the White Ghost has.) Even though Ra's knows it was him at the door, he places the elegant golden chalice full of red wine down on the desk and gives a slightly surprised smile. Adrian glances at the drink and can't help but focus in on the deep crimson color. Red like rubies, red like blood…he shudders, even as Ra's greets him, "Hello, my son. Is something troubling you?"

He speaks as if the young man has grown up with him, as though eighteen years of separation mean absolutely nothing. And this cannot be possible. Ra's al Ghul is a cold, cunning, and calculating man, giving little—if any—thought to how his actions might harm another.

Perhaps they really are related…

Adrian shakes off the reverie and responds, "I wanted to talk to you—_privately_."

The emphasis he puts on the final word makes it absolutely clear that the White Ghost's presence isn't wanted. Ra's gives a nod, signaling that the man has permission to go, and leave he does, albeit with a growl of indignation. Adrian chooses to disregard it, especially as Ra's turns back to him that same, damned smile and asks, pleasantly as can be, "What did you wish to speak with me about?"

A quick, hard swallow enables the words to flow out more quickly than he'd been able to think them up in the first place. "I want to know why. Why'd you leave me in Gotham, if I mean so much to you? And why try to be my father now, eighteen years later?"

Ra's' expression falls, and he heaves a sigh. "My Adrian," he murmurs, "dear, sweet child. I had known this conversation would occur." He motions for the young man to sit, so Adrian takes a chair in front of the desk, unsure of where this will go. "Your mother and I, we were the perfect fit for each other. She was a strong woman, confident and courageous and sure. She gave you much of what you have."

"So I'm told," Adrian all but spits, even though both parties are well aware of the lie on his lips, considering he had been told nothing of his mother beyond her name.

Ra's does not ignore the boy's less-than-subtle blow to his parents, and his face takes on an expression akin to anger. "I would suggest you hold your mother in higher respect than that," he says, almost darkly. "She was willing to die that you might have a chance to live."

Adrian bites his lip and redirects his gaze to his lap, his defiance dissolving at the new information. It takes a while before either the father or the son can find their voices. "I'm sorry."

"Think nothing of it." But Ra's' tone conveys the hurt he feels at the insult to his late wife. "Isabella, though she lived a short time with me, was every bit the strategist I was. She felt that it would be…necessary…to raise you outside of the League, outside of my house, in order to test your skill. After all, every ruler must prove that he is worthy to reign."

Stunned silence stops the conversation cold for another moment. "You wanted me to be your heir," Adrian says, the jigsaw puzzle his mind has stealthily hidden away since it put the pieces together finally resonating with him.

"You will be a king the likes of which the world has never seen, Adrian," Ra's assures him, nodding decisively. "Your rule will last however long you wish to reign. You will have all the power, all the riches you wish. Everything you dream of could be yours."

"What if I dream of being normal again?"

The cold words bite through the air in the room, and Adrian can hardly breathe anymore. He knows he's crossed some unseen line, some unspoken boundary, but he can't help it. This information is just too much to take in all at once, too much to process. His mouth opens and closes repeatedly as he struggles to find something to say. "I…I just meant…I—"

"No explanation is necessary, Adrian." Ra's' voice, if he isn't mistaken, sounds hurt and sad, but only fractionally so.

"I don't want to rule anybody." The admission makes the air between them heavier with the fog of sorrow and regret. "I don't want to be a part of that."

Ra's begins to speak with a degree of real sympathy then. "What _do_ you want, then?"

Adrian's voice is barely a whisper, barely existent. "I just want to go home."

He senses the massive presence behind his chair before he even sees the near-imperceptible nod of Ra's' head. Even as he throws up a hand to block, the White Ghost's meaty fingers find and exploit a pressure point on the young man's throat, sending him deep into unconsciousness before he can make out Ra's' last words to him.


End file.
